The Last Deception

by DV Berkom, D. V. Berkom

  “And how’d they track you here? That’s the real question.”

  “I don’t know, but we should check the hull for explosives, and then get the hell out of here.”

  Art nodded. “I’ll get the submersible rigged up with a camera and drop it in.”

  “I was going to offer to do it.”

  “No need. The camera’s a high-def model. Saves me from having to go down there and check for barnacles.”

  “Then I’ll keep an eye on things while you’re doing that.” She glanced toward shore. A small crowd had gathered on the main dock. “They must have heard the gunshots. Do we need to do some triage?”

  He shrugged. “I doubt it. Most folks around here mind their own business. We should probably wave and smile, though, to make it look like everything’s fine.”

  They turned and waved. Leine smiled and nodded, and Art did the same.

  How the hell did the guy find them? They were on a fishing boat in the middle of the Saronic Gulf. She glanced at Art. He’d been pretty late to the party. Sure, he was a friend of Lou’s, but how well did Lou really know him? It had been a while since they’d worked together. She’d have to be careful going forward.

  The crowd thinned, leaving the dock empty except for two donkeys tied up next to each other, waiting for the next load.

  Art handed her the .45. “You’re not safe on board. Let me think a minute where to put you.”

  “Really, Art, you didn’t ask for this. Just get me back to the mainland and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Art snorted. “You’re not blowing me off that easy. Things are just starting to get interesting.”

  “Sure, when it’s my life.” Leine gave him a sidelong glance. Until she knew who and what could be trusted, she’d follow the original script. “I can’t say I wouldn’t welcome the help.”

  “It’s settled, then.” Art started for the pilot house.

  Leine tucked the gun back in her waistband. “I hope you know what you signed on for.”

  Or what I did.

  Chapter 20

  Moscow, Russia

  Sakharov returned to his hotel and ordered a bottle of scotch from the concierge before heading to his room. As he was boarding the elevator, the desk clerk ran over to him with a manila envelope that had been delivered earlier that afternoon. Aleksei took it from her and checked the contents before handing it to Sakharov.

  After sweeping the room, the security team took their positions—Aleksei stood in the hallway outside the door while a second man took a position near the stairwell with a clear view of the elevators. A third roamed the lobby and underground garage.

  With his coat still on and envelope in hand, he opened the French doors to his balcony and walked out, grabbing a glass on the way. He stopped at the table and poured himself a stiff drink, then set the bottle and envelope down. Sipping the fifty-year-old scotch, he stared at the lights of Moscow spread out before him, mulling his options.

  How far did Roman’s influence reach? When Sakharov went to war against him, what and who would he be going up against? No longer the Roman Tsarev he knew from childhood, his old friend’s tentacles reached into places that Anatoly Sakharov couldn’t begin to imagine.

  And what to do about the Basso woman? As it stood, he didn’t trust her. What good would it do him to help her? The information from the flash drive would eventually come to light through leaks or some other avenue, and his company would have to weather the storm those leaks would unleash, guilty or not. Besides, she’d lied and used his wife to get to him.

  In the distance, the lights of the Kremlin gave rise to thoughts of the former Soviet Union and the way things used to be. Would he be the man he was today if perestroika hadn’t happened? Doubtful. The freedom had been intoxicating, and he’d taken advantage of the prevailing “anything goes” atmosphere in the marketplace. Similar to the gold rush, the boldest ones made the most money. No way would he have been able to become as rich and powerful under the old rules. He might have moved into arms dealing no matter what—the opportunity would have been there either way—but he would have had to work the dark edges for far longer to acquire his empire.

  With that, his thoughts turned to his family. Katarina may have been his second wife, but they’d been together so long now that their marriage seemed like the only one for either of them. If Mikhail was truly dead, then Olga was now his only child, as his first marriage hadn’t produced any offspring. He was hard-pressed to remember much good from the pairing, although the bad taste that accompanied the memories stopped him from thinking about it for too long.

  Katarina would wonder about the added security. He turned to go back inside to call her but hesitated when he remembered the envelope the hotel clerk gave to him. He opened it and pulled out three enlarged photographs. Taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, they were obviously surveillance photos.

  He studied each one and then set them down. Although Sergei hadn’t been able to confirm or deny Mikhail’s death before he was murdered, he’d furnished the next best thing—proof of the lengths to which Roman would go to further his agenda.

  He slid the photographs back into the envelope, but one slipped from his hand, falling to the balcony floor. As he bent to retrieve it there was a sharp thud against the brick wall next to him. Startled, Sakharov dropped to the floor and ripped his semiauto from his shoulder holster.

  Someone was shooting at him.

  Another round hit the wall only inches from his head. Heart thudding in his chest, he crawled to the French door and catapulted himself into the room. More shots hit the door, raining shards of glass around him, splintering the carpet and cutting his hands. He scrambled behind the massive divan and heavy wood side table and yanked the lamp cord free of its plug, submerging the room in darkness.

  The front door opened and light poured in from the hallway.

  “Shut the door!” Sakharov yelled. The door slammed shut and the room was once again encased in darkness. “Aleksei?” he asked. His hands shook from the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  “Yes,” his bodyguard answered.

  “The shots came from outside. The shooter has a clear view of the balcony.”

  Without another word, Aleksei low-crawled his way behind the desk next to the broken glass door and raised his rifle to peer through the infrared scope. He did a sweep and then dropped back.

  “There are several positions he could be shooting from,” he said. “There may be a team—another gunman, someone watching the lobby. Our best bet is to move you via the stairwell.” Aleksei murmured into his wrist mic, alerting the others and ordering the car.

  Sakharov groped the surface of the side table for his phone. It was a good bet the sniper was using an infrared scope similar to Aleksei’s, which meant he would be able to see them move through the room as they prepared to leave. Sakharov brought up the hotel room’s automation application on his phone, found what he needed, and pressed a button. The remaining glass instantly darkened, obscuring the interior.

  “Let’s go.” Sakharov climbed to his feet as Aleksei moved in front of him to the door.

  They managed to make it to the garage without incident. An armored SUV waited near the elevators. Aleksei took the front seat next to the driver. The other two rode in back with Sakharov. The driver asked where to go and Sakharov replied, “Just drive.”

  He leaned back and stared out the window. Obviously, his outburst on the phone with Roman had instigated the assassination attempt. The man worked exceedingly fast. Faster than anyone Sakharov had been up against in his years as an arms dealer. In that world, everyone was suspect. The only trustworthy thing was cold, hard cash, and even that could be counterfeit.

  Had Roman only meant to issue a warning? The sniper hadn’t found his mark. If Sakharov hadn’t moved in that instant, would he now be dead? Or had the sniper intentionally missed?

  If Tsarev only meant it as a warning, it was the
wrong one to send to a man like Sakharov. Seething rage bubbled below the surface. Roman would stop at nothing, it seemed.

  Two could play that game. It was time to change the rules.

  Chapter 21

  Moscow, Russia

  “Must you leave so soon?” A languid smile on her lips, Pearl Kaminski stretched across the satin sheets, reminding Roman Tsarev of a lazy blond jungle cat. The general tweaked one of her nipples and she squealed with delight, desire flaming in her eyes.

  “I must.” He leaned down to take her breast in his mouth. Pearl groaned with need, but Roman broke contact and rose from the bed. The twenty-two-year-old pursed her lips in mock disappointment before a coy smile curved her lips. Trailing her fingers slowly down her ample chest and taut belly, she slid the sheet down until she was fully exposed. With a glance at his growing erection, she touched herself provocatively before raising her fingers to her mouth and slowly sucking each one.

  Maybe he had a few minutes. He checked his watch. He’d be late for his meeting with the prime minister if he didn’t leave at once. Stifling a frustrated groan, he turned away and picked up his clothes from the chair where he’d left them the night before. As usual, his wife was on holiday and wouldn’t be back for several weeks. He’d have plenty of time with Pearl until then.

  “Why don’t we meet for dinner at that new restaurant in the city center?” Roman had no illusions as to why such a lovely young woman agreed to keep him company, although sometimes he allowed himself to believe it was because of his prowess in the bedroom rather than the wealth and power that turned her on. Or the money he paid to keep her calendar free. The envious looks from other men when he and Pearl were together were worth far more than he cared to admit.

  “But I don’t have anything to wear.” Pouting prettily, she arched her back and caressed her full breasts.

  Roman smiled. “Then you should go shopping.” The expense was worth it—a simple way to keep her happy.

  He opened the double doors leading to the sitting room of the luxurious apartment he’d purchased for their trysts, and nodded at his security guards. One of them brought him his overcoat, and another his attaché case. Two more waited outside the door. A quick look at the messages on his phone told him it would be a long, arduous day ahead. With a sigh, he headed downstairs to his waiting car.

  Stepping out the door he buttoned his coat against the crisp morning air before walking toward the armored SUV idling curbside. Georg opened the back door and stepped aside so he could enter.

  “Wait,” the bodyguard said, his eyes narrowing. “Where’s Boris?”

  Tsarev froze, immediately tense. Boris was the general’s usual driver. He glanced through the driver’s window, but the dark glass made it difficult to see inside. Georg seized the general by the arm and dragged him away from the SUV while the other three guards drew their weapons and closed ranks around him.

  Seconds later the general’s vehicle exploded. Tsarev and his men were blown back several feet as the force of the blast lifted the SUV into the air and slammed it back down, setting off car alarms on both sides of the street.

  Ears ringing and utterly disoriented, Tsarev felt someone grip him under the arms and drag him up the front steps into the building. Halfway to the door, he found his feet and propelled himself and two of his bodyguards inside the marble entrance. A third bodyguard followed and slammed the heavy door shut.

  Tsarev sucked in deep breaths to calm the hammering in his chest. “Where’s Georg?”

  “Outside,” one of the guards answered.

  “Go get him,” he snarled.

  Two of the guards scrambled to do his bidding as a budding rage seethed within him. Although he’d made many enemies throughout his career, the timing of this attempted assassination told him all he needed to know. The audacity of a daylight bombing after a visit to his mistress had the hallmarks of someone who was familiar with his schedule. He’d been careful to keep the location secret, had worked diligently to make sure he’d never been followed to this address. Although he bugged the apartment and her phone, expecting to uncover some kind of blackmail scheme, Pearl had been surprisingly innocent in her phone calls and conversations, convincing him her only interest was in the money he paid her and in being the mistress of a powerful man.

  No, this bombing had the hallmarks of retaliation for the recent attempt on Anatoly Sakharov’s life. Even though Tsarev had sent the sniper as a warning, Sakharov had now become a much greater liability to his carefully laid plans.

  It was time to teach him a lesson.

  Chapter 22

  Sakharov villa, Athens, Greece

  Katarina Sakharov watched her daughter purse her lips at herself in the mirror and then blow a kiss at her reflection. The new lip color matched the heightened blush on her cheeks perfectly. She shook her hair back and struck a pose with a sultry look. The lacy minidress set off her dark tan and made the green in her eyes pop. She twirled, giving herself the once-over, and smiled.

  The boys at the club would walk on their tongues through glass to be alone with her. As the daughter of one of the richest men in Russia she could get into any exclusive club in Athens, but her high cheekbones, perfect breasts, and long legs were what put her in the top five percent.

  Katarina had told her to enjoy this time, that it wouldn’t last, but her daughter didn’t believe her. Why would she? The young couldn’t imagine sagging skin and wrinkles, though their brains told them it was so for all, even with the wonders of plastic surgery. Taking one last look in the full-length mirror, Olga picked up her silk wrap and Prada clutch, and turned for her mother’s inspection.

  From her vantage point on the couch in the front room, Katarina saw a beautiful and talented young woman, eager to make her way in the world. She sighed, wishing for a younger version who wanted to stay home and keep her company, but that was not to be.

  Except tonight. She didn’t relish the news she was about to deliver.

  She smiled at Olga and said, “You look lovely. Men would fall over themselves to be near you. I’m sorry they won’t have the chance this evening.”

  Her daughter gave her a quizzical look as she walked over to the upholstered settee across from her mother and sat down. “Why not?” she asked.

  “Your father called from Moscow. Certain… events have transpired and he’s decided to hire more security.”

  “Is he all right? Are we?” Worry etched Olga’s face.

  “Yes. For now. But to be absolutely certain of our safety we are not to leave the villa.”

  Olga’s eyes widened in alarm. “What? But I’ve promised Nalini—”

  Katarina closed the magazine she’d been reading and gave her daughter a stern look. “Nalini will have to go clubbing without you. No exceptions.”

  Olga leaped to her feet, anger sweeping her face. “That’s not fair. I have plans for tonight.”

  “You will have to cancel them.”

  “I can’t. I won’t.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I am an adult now. I make my own decisions.”

  “Not tonight.” Katarina sighed. “I’m afraid your father’s decision overrules your adulthood.” She hated having to rein in her daughter, but she wouldn’t take a chance on losing Olga. Especially since Mikhail…She pushed the thought away. There was no proof that he was dead. Yet.

  “I’ll take Farid with me,” she protested, waving her hand at the bodyguard standing near the doorway.

  “I’m sorry, Olga.” At eighteen, having her freedom restricted must have felt as though it was the end of the world. Katarina softened her voice. “There will be other nights. The boys will wait, my sweet. I promise.”

  “But—”

  “No. Your father’s and my decision is final.” Katarina injected enough steel into her voice to let Olga know she would brook no further argument.

  “How could you?” Olga glared accusingly at her mother. A storm of emotions washed over her face: ange
r, betrayal, disbelief.

  “Your father and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

  “You wouldn’t have to if he wasn’t in such a dangerous business,” she said, tears of frustration forming in her eyes. “Why can’t we be a normal family?”

  “Are you suggesting that we give up our way of life?” Katarina asked, spreading her arms wide, indicating the well-appointed villa. “You forget it’s his business that allows us to live like royalty.”

  Olga’s eyes darkened with anger. “How can I forget?” She nodded toward the gold-lacquered, silk-tufted furniture, and then at the gilt-framed portrait of Katarina hanging over the fireplace. Pieces her mother had moved from the yacht to the villa to make the modern décor feel a bit more like home. “His ‘Early Tsarist’ taste follows us everywhere. I can’t get away from it.”

  Katarina had had enough. “I’m sorry, Olga, but that is the way things are. You will accede to our wishes, or you will find yourself even more restricted in your activities.”

  “Fine.” Olga turned abruptly, then stalked from the room and up the stairs. Moments later, the door to her bedroom slammed shut.

  Katarina sighed, unease snaking its way up her spine. During the best of times, she worried about her children being held for ransom or some other kind of leverage to hold sway over Anatoly and his vast wealth. But now that her husband’s childhood friend was working at cross purposes to her family, she had much more cause for concern. Someday, Olga would understand.

  Thankfully, they were living in a villa rented under a shell company that, if someone were to dig, would never link back to them. Also, most of their friends and family didn’t know that she and Olga had stayed on in Athens and were looking to buy property. The added security had been worrisome, but Anatoly had assured her that as long as they didn’t leave, she and Olga were safe.